In Safekeeping
by MBradford
Summary: Unwanted attention from an agressive admirer puts Frodo in great danger. Sam to the rescue!
1. admiration

Title: In Safekeeping Author-Mbradford  
Summary: Unwanted attention from an aggressive admirer puts Frodo in great danger. Sam to the rescue!  
  
Warnings: Non-consensual slash elements, light Frodo/Sam slash Rating: R due to violence.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own the places or the characters except for one Rushford Bramblethorn. Not sure I want to own him, really. He's nasty! Making no money, spending too much time.  
  
A/N This story is the result of encountering a plotbunny at the Library of Moria site. I am currently trying to post this there as well, but my e- mail submission isn't getting through. Thanks though, to Ladyrogue at Library of Moria for donating the plotbunny that kept me awake last night. Thanks also to Emma and Iorhael, for showing me through their own great stories, the proper way to make a nasty hobbit!  
  
So far, I have only written light-hearted, G-PG rated sweet hobbit fics, so this is a departure for me. I'm keeping the slash implications as low- key as I can, to try to make this palatable for as many readers as possible. What intrigued me about this particular plotbunny was the opportunity to cast Sam in a heroic role. Last but not least, I apologize in advance if I mangle canon, change the laws of physics, or do anything else which doesn't make sense.  
  
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Chapter 1 - Admiration  
  
"I suppose no harm will come of it, and it has been a rather tiring day," Frodo admitted, as Fredegar and Tom cajoled him.  
  
"Of course not," said Fredegar, regarding the young Master of Bag End with a smile. It had only been a month since Bilbo had made his spectacular exit at the birthday party, and Fredegar knew his friend was still pained by his uncle's sudden departure. It would do Frodo some good to relax a bit, and what better way than a couple of half-pints at the Green Dragon in the company of friends?  
  
"Come on, Frodo. You need to get out of Bag End for a few hours," Tom added.  
  
Frodo nodded, giving in. He'd not seen Fredegar Bolger and Tom Cotton for a while and it would be good to sit down and talk with them for a bit. He had a rather difficult translation of an elvish history weighing on his mind and wanted to make an early start of it in the morning, but he should still be able to accomplish that goal as long as he didn't stay out too late.  
  
Frodo retrieved his cloak from the chair it was draped over in the parlor, and followed his friends out the door. It was not a long walk to the Green Dragon Inn, but it was rather chilly out that evening. As they made their way along the path, Frodo reflected that he had been rather reclusive since Bilbo left. Things just weren't the same without Bilbo around. A little bit of the light that had been a part of everyday life at Bag End had seemingly gone with the eccentric old hobbit, and Frodo had felt the absence.  
  
There was a warm glow of lamplight from the windows of the Green Dragon's common room, which seemed to drive back the chill of the evening as the three hobbits walked in. A good number of hobbits occupied the benches and chairs this evening, and the usual activities of singing songs and telling jokes and stories were in full swing. The constant babble of conversation rose and fell in waves around them as they sought out an empty table.  
  
As Frodo, Fredegar and Tom walked past a table occupied by a particularly noisy group, one of the clearly inebriated hobbits looked up and watched them pass. Rushford Bramblethorn regarded Frodo and his friends over the rim of his tankard, Frodo in particular. The expression on his face changed from one of mild curiosity to a rather nasty leer as he contemplated.  
  
Wasn't that Frodo Baggins, the nephew and adopted heir of that old crackpot Bilbo Baggins? Ahh, yes. So it was. He took another swallow of ale, his eyes never leaving Frodo's retreating form. Bramblethorn remembered having seen Frodo about Hobbiton from time to time. A striking young figure of a hobbit Frodo had been even as a tween, but now.hadn't the lad just come of age a short while ago?  
  
He sipped his ale again, letting his eyes drift over Frodo's features. Slim, by hobbit standards, dark curly hair framing an unusually pale face with sharp angular features. Impossibly large, blue eyes. He wanted a closer look into those amazing eyes. He wanted a lot more than that, he acknowledged to himself with a wolfish grin. Given the right opportunity -  
  
Across the room, Frodo glanced up and caught Bramblethorn's gaze. Without realizing why, he found himself starting to blush slightly. Maybe it was just the ale working on him combined with the effects of a long day in his study, but that look seemed rather odd. He'd seen a similar expression on Fredegar's face a few months back when his friend was looking at the new barmaid at the Inn. Frodo's blush deepened, and he looked around quickly to see if there was, in fact, a pretty lass in the near vicinity. He saw none nearby. Shaking his head slightly and telling himself to stop imagining things, he turned back to the conversation at his own table.  
  
An hour or so later, Frodo felt his energy beginning to ebb, and rose from the table. "Gentlehobbits, I thank you for inviting me along with you this evening, but it's time I should be on my way. I've a long day planned tomorrow, and it wouldn't do to begin it with a headache!"  
  
Fredegar and Tom laughed. "Thank you for allowing us to drag you from your home, Frodo," Tom answered. "Take care of yourself, and please don't hibernate so much. We'll have to come dig you out again if you do," Tom threatened good-naturedly.  
  
Frodo threw his cloak over his shoulders and made for the door, his thoughts already turning to that tricky elvish translation. Thus occupied, he didn't notice another figure rising to follow him from the room.  
  
~*~  
  
The night air was crisp indeed, and Frodo shivered slightly as he wrapped his cloak tighter around him. He was not far down the path when he thought he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Rushford Bramblethorn approaching at a leisurely pace. Frodo frowned inwardly. Now what could Bramblethorn want? Frodo was not well acquainted with the other hobbit, but had met him briefly on a few social occasions.  
  
"Well, well! Frodo Baggins, isn't it?" Bramblethorn said amiably as he closed the short distance between them. "It's pleasant running into you this evening," he added, the smile never leaving his face.  
  
"Likewise, Master Bramblethorn," Frodo responded with a polite nod to the other hobbit.  
  
"It's a shame to find you leaving so soon. I had hoped to engage you in conversation for a short while," Bramblethorn continued, as he moved to stand closer to Frodo. A little too close, Frodo thought. He could smell the ale on the other hobbit's breath, and by the look of him, Bramblethorn had enjoyed his fair share that evening.  
  
Continuing to smile politely, Frodo backed up a step. "Please pardon my early departure. I've some pressing work to begin early in the morning, so I'd not planned to be out late," he replied.  
  
"It's a shame. I should have enjoyed your company this evening." Bramblethorn had taken another step forward and the look on his face had changed. Frodo noted uneasily that it was starting to develop into the strange look he had seen directed at him earlier in the evening. The short hairs on the back of Frodo's neck began to bristle as he took another cautious step away from Bramblethorn.  
  
"Perhaps another time," Frodo ventured, wanting to end the conversation, but not wishing to be rude. He bowed slightly to the other hobbit and turned to continue down the path. Immediately, hands fell upon his shoulders and spun him around again. Frodo found himself looking directly into Bramblethorn's eyes, which had taken on a threatening gleam that didn't match his still polite tone of voice.  
  
"Don't be so hasty in your departure, Master Baggins," Bramblethorn fairly purred. "I think you wouldn't mind our spending a little time together either, by the look you gave me earlier."  
  
Frodo stared, any pretense of civility beginning to evaporate in the face of the insinuation. "The look I gave you? You have a vivid imagination!" Indignation was plainly evident in Frodo's voice as he confronted the somewhat drunken hobbit before him.  
  
"Do I?" Bramblethorn smiled, and paused as if to consider. "I will grant you that, certainly, Frodo," he said, emphasizing his use of Frodo's first name. "In fact, I'll just bet you have no concept of the true extent of my imagination." With that statement, Bramblethorn tightened his grip on Frodo's shoulders and advanced closer still.  
  
Frodo felt himself pierced by a stab of anger and a growing surge of fear. He tried to calm himself and take control of the situation. "I would not presume to guess," he managed. Attempting a firm tone, he continued, "Please take your hands off me. If I understand what you propose, I am not interested."  
  
"Oh, but I think you are. You just won't admit it!" Bramblethorn shook Frodo and shoved him backwards, still not releasing his grip. Frodo stumbled backward into a tree and realized, to his horror, that he was effectively trapped. If only someone would come down the path! But the night was comparatively young, and no other hobbits had ventured out from the warmth of the inn into the chilly air. The path remained deserted save for the two of them.  
  
Bramblethorn was leering openly now, pressing Frodo against the tree. "I've admired you from afar for so long," he said, winding his fingers into Frodo's hair. "I've wanted you since I first saw you, truthfully. You're such a lovely thing, you must be accustomed to a great deal of attention." The fingers in Frodo's hair tightened, now pulling painfully. "No reason to act so coy, Frodo."  
  
Frodo was revolted, and panic began to overtake him. "Stop it! Let go of me!" he exclaimed and tried to twist out of Bramblethorn's grasp. Having had enough of Frodo's protests, Bramblethorn promptly backhanded him across the face, knocking the smaller hobbit to the ground. As Frodo fought to regain his equilibrium, his attacker pounced on him, pinning him face down on the ground and pulling one of his arms up painfully behind him. Frodo grimaced as he felt his wrist twisted in the vise-like grip.  
  
Through the tide of his rising panic, Frodo took stock of his situation. Bramblethorn was larger and stronger than Frodo, but he was also rather drunk. Frodo had been careful to keep his alcohol intake to a minimum, as he did not want any ill effects to deal with in the morning. Frodo noted that he had fallen to the side of the path, and now lay at a slight downhill incline. He took a deep breath and willed himself to be calm, to relax, in hopes that Bramblethorn would then relax his grip as well.  
  
"Take it easy, Frodo! No need to become combative. But you do show a lot of spirit, and I like that about you," Bramblethorn hissed. Frodo felt the hand on his wrist ease its grip slightly and felt his attacker's weight shift somewhat. What he heard next was almost enough to stop his heart - the sound of fabric rustling and the click of braces being unfastened. It was now or never.  
  
With all his strength, Frodo rolled to the side and pushed at Bramblethorn. The other hobbit's back was to the downward slope, giving Frodo some advantage. As his attacker fell away from him, Frodo scrambled to his feet and aimed a well-placed kick at Bramblethorn's groin area. The blow connected and it was Bramblethorn's turn to fall to the ground, rolling a short way down the incline as he did so. With a cry of pure fury and pain, Bramblethorn tried to regain his feet, without success.  
  
Frodo didn't wait to see how seriously he had injured the other hobbit. He turned and fled down the path toward the comparative safety of Bag End. His breath coming in ragged gasps, Frodo flung the door open and bolted inside, slamming and locking it in a single motion. With his back to the door, he fought to control his racing heart and the burning pain in his lungs. Trembling violently, he found his legs would no longer support him and he sank to the floor. His head fell forward into his hands and in terror and misery, Frodo wept. 


	2. Putting Two and Two Together

Chapter 2 - Putting Two and Two Together  
  
When he had regained control of himself to the best of his ability, Frodo considered his options. He certainly could not tell anyone about this. Would anyone believe him if he did? And even though Bramblethorn had not succeeded with his intentions, Frodo felt as if he were somehow tainted by the experience. It was as if something noisome clung to him now, and he was unable to brush it away.  
  
Had he encouraged the attack somehow? No, he couldn't have! He had done nothing more than attempt to be civil. And Bramblethorn's accusation that Frodo had given him an inviting look at the Inn was absurd. A confused look, perhaps, but certainly nothing more.  
  
Too tired and emotionally drained to think about it anymore, Frodo stood up and brushed himself off. His wrist hurt, and his face still stung from having been struck. How could he explain his injuries? He would have to think of something, he supposed. Sam would certainly say something about them, solicitous as he was. Frodo didn't want Sam getting mixed up in any of this foolishness, or anyone else who was close to him for that matter. He would have to think of something to tell them, and he pondered this as he wrapped the sprained wrist and went in search of a cold compress for the darkening bruise under his left eye.  
  
~*~  
  
Frodo spent the morning indoors, working on the elvish translation as he had planned. He usually reserved some time between luncheon and teatime for reading and saw no reason to change his normal routine. Emerging into the sunny garden with a book in his hands, he seated himself on a bench in the shade and began to read.  
  
Troubled as he was by the events of the previous night, Frodo found himself thoroughly absorbed in the book in no time at all. He did not hear Sam approaching behind him. As Sam touched him lightly on the shoulder and said "Good afternoon, Mr. Frodo," in a cheerful tone, Frodo involuntarily leapt upward, dropping the book.  
  
Sam had heard the phrase about 'jumping out of one's skin', but he had never seen Mr. Frodo do it. Frodo was always so calm, his motions sure and fluid. Sam gaped as Frodo stood staring at him, wild-eyed.  
  
"Mr. Frodo!" Sam stammered. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."  
  
"No, Sam, it's all right. I'm sorry I jumped like that. I just didn't hear you coming, and I was reading. I'm fine, really," Frodo assured his gardener. He saw that look of deep concern he had been expecting beginning to cross Sam's features.  
  
"Mr. Frodo, your wrist! And how did you get that awful bruise?" Sam's gaze lingered on Frodo's pale features.  
  
"It's nothing, Sam," Frodo said, trying to sound confident and reassuring. "I slipped on some water while getting out of the bath this morning. No permanent damage has been done."  
  
"A good thing, too," Sam replied, concern still written on his face. "Bilbo would come back and skin me if he saw what a state I let you get yourself into," he fretted.  
  
Frodo mustered up a laugh. "Sam, I hardly think Bilbo expected you to watch over me night and day, although you practically do just that. It just wouldn't be possible. Now stop worrying and come in for tea."  
  
Sam did his best to brush his worry aside as Frodo began to act and sound more like himself. Slipping and falling though? That wasn't like Frodo at all, nor was his unaccountably jumpy behavior in the garden. Try as he might, Sam could not keep those strange things from weighing on his mind for the remainder of the day as he finished his chores in the garden and headed home to supper.  
  
~*~  
  
A week later, having seen no more odd behavior from Frodo and being assured his master's injuries were healing well, Sam felt more at ease. The normal routine at Bag End had resumed, with only one minor change. Every morning since their talk in the garden, Frodo had found a soft bath rug had been added to his décor. There would be no more slipping on spilled bathwater at Bag End, if Sam had anything to say about it.  
  
Sam had joined Frodo on the bench in the garden for a smoke when the garden chores were finished. Any barriers between gentry and working class dissolved with that regular ritual, leaving behind only a long time bond of genuine friendship. As he filled his pipe and reached for Frodo's, Sam looked at the garden with satisfaction. The growing season was nearly over, with autumn in full swing. There were still some late-blooming flowers to be tended and the pumpkins were looking fine. All was as it should be.  
  
"Mr. Frodo, Halfred and I were planning to drop by the Green Dragon a bit later. Would you care to join us?" Sam looked at Frodo, hoping he would agree. It had been Sam's elder brother Halfred who had suggested the idea. Halfred didn't spend nearly as much time around Frodo as Sam usually did, but he too had noticed Frodo's reluctance to venture out much since Bilbo's departure.  
  
The Green Dragon. Frodo hesitated. What if he ran into Bramblethorn again? He didn't think he could face that prospect. He would like to see Halfred again, though, and he didn't want to do anything that would make Sam suspicious that anything untoward had happened. He supposed he would be safe enough with both of the sturdily built Gamgees in his presence, and he absolutely would not leave alone!  
  
"I - I suppose I could join you, for a short while at least," Frodo said quietly, regarding his pipe closely. He couldn't stay hidden in Bag End forever. Perhaps the incident with Bramblethorn had been solely the product of too much ale to begin with, and he need fear no further difficulty.  
  
~*~  
  
Another crisp autumn evening, with the inviting glow of lamplight though windows. But somehow, the glow seemed less inviting to Frodo than it had before. He knew it was just his nerves wearing on him, but the cold shiver that ran down his back had less to do with the chilly air than his companions would ever know.  
  
As unobtrusively as he could, Frodo situated himself between Halfred and Sam. He disliked the idea of entering first, and especially disliked the idea of trailing in last. He didn't bother to try to decipher his reasoning for this, but just followed his instincts. So far he had managed to hide any agitation from his companions, or at least they weren't indicating that they had noticed any.  
  
They entered the common room and saw a table near the roaring fire that was unoccupied. All seemed well so far. Frodo glanced around furtively, but saw no sign of Rushford Bramblethorn. He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe the wicked creature was getting soused elsewhere that evening.  
  
Rosie Cotton approached their table, deftly balancing a tray with three full tankards of Buckland's best ale. She greeted them with a smile and small talk, ever a friendly presence. "Frodo, I was sorry to see you leave so soon at your last visit," she said. Frodo was hard put not to wince at the similarity between her statement and what Bramblethorn had said to him a week ago. "It looked like you, Tom and Fredegar were enjoying yourselves. Tom said to send his greetings."  
  
Frodo swallowed uncomfortably and fought his anxiety down. "Thank you, Rosie. I had some work to do at home. Otherwise I would have remained longer. Please tell Tom I hope all is well with him."  
  
"Samwise and Halfred!" Rosie turned to the other two hobbits. "I hope this evening finds you well." She set the three tankards on the table and disappeared as quickly as she had arrived, tending to the needs of the other guests.  
  
Sam shot a quick glance at Frodo when he was sure his master wasn't looking. Frodo had been at the Green Dragon a week ago? Did that account for him managing to fall down at home? Would he have been in such a condition by morning to have done so? Frodo was not at all a heavy drinker by any standard, Sam mused. It wouldn't take a great deal of ale to make him unsteady on his feet. But still, getting that tipsy would have been quite unusual behavior for Frodo.  
  
"Well, Mr. Frodo," Halfred began. "I haven't seen you in a while. Been startin' to worry some about you hidin' away in Bag End like that."  
  
"Oh, I know I've seemed a little distant," Frodo apologized. "But it's just - " He paused and looked into the flames in the fireplace. "With Bilbo gone, things are different. I suppose it will take some time for me to get used to the idea. I do hope he's all right, and I do miss him very much," he finished, looking back from the fireplace to his companions.  
  
The conversation turned from Bilbo's mysterious disappearance at the party to speculations on where he had gone and why. Bilbo's colorful life was fodder for much discussion, and they passed a couple of hours recounting stories about him between them. Frodo found that he had relaxed in spite of everything. His fears were pushed aside for the time being by fond memories shared with friends.  
  
As the tankards were emptied, Frodo rose from his seat and gathered them into his hands. "Rosie's busy. I'll get this round," he said, and turned away to the bar. He ordered three more ales and stood waiting for the barkeep to bring them around. As he did, the general din of conversation fragmented occasionally and voices stood out. Some he recognized and some he didn't. Talk of harvests just completed, last minute chores to be done before the coming of winter, and the inevitable but pointless debate regarding what sort of winter was in store for the Shire. Whatever sort of winter it was, it would come regardless of any so-called weathertelling expertise espoused by old-timers.  
  
As he steadied the three frothing tankards in his hands and turned back toward the table by the fireside, he heard it. A coarse catcall from across the room. Without meaning to, Frodo froze in place, and his already pale face went paler still. Bramblethorn! Frodo fought the impulse to turn and look toward the source of the sound, and lost. He turned his head slightly, and saw Rushford Bramblethorn sitting at a corner table, regarding him with an expression somewhere between lust and murderous hatred. Frodo reflected that he must not have done any lasting harm to Bramblethorn when he had kicked him. How unfortunate.  
  
Frodo continued on his way back to the table, steadying the mugs against the shaking of his hands. It wouldn't do to show any obvious reaction. He set the tankards carefully upon the table, not spilling a drop, and re- seated himself across from Sam.  
  
Sam was looking over Frodo's shoulder, at the corner of the room. What in Shire had that been all about? He had seen the change in Frodo's demeanor and watched as the color drained from his friend and master's face. For a fraction of a second, Frodo had actually looked frightened. And then there was that leering Rushford Bramblethorn sitting in the corner. Had he said something to Frodo?  
  
Sam pondered. He might be just a simple gardener, but he knew enough to put two and two together and have it come out four. Something bad was afoot, and no mistake! If that hideous lout in the corner had done any harm to Mr. Frodo -  
  
"Mr. Frodo, are you all right?" Sam looked Frodo in the eye, searching for telltale signs of deception. Frodo was a terrible liar, and the truth always shone out through his eyes. "I'm fine, Sam." Frodo replied quietly, as if by saying it he could make it true.  
  
"The look on your face just now," Sam began carefully, "it reminded me of how you looked in the garden a few days back. Are you sure you've nothing troubling you?"  
  
"Quite sure, Sam. Honestly, if you spend any more time worrying about me than you already do, you won't have time for gardening." The attempt at playful admonishment sounded hollow even to Frodo's own ears. Sam did his best to react as he normally would, smiling slightly and looking away. Something was going on, and Frodo wasn't going to talk about it.  
  
When they rose to leave, Sam placed himself to Frodo's right, effectively blocking Frodo's view of where Bramblethorn was sitting in the corner. He also managed to shield Frodo from the other hobbit's gaze by the action. Frodo looked straight ahead as he walked out the door with the Gamgees. Sam looked to his right and for the briefest of moments, he locked gazes with Bramblethorn, hating what he saw there. He couldn't put a name to it, but it was loathsome, twisted and wrong.  
  
Sam would be watching. He wouldn't let Mr. Frodo out of his sight any time soon if he could help it. There was something going on, something Mr. Frodo wouldn't talk about. Sam would get to the bottom of it himself if need be. He continued out the door behind Halfred and Frodo. 


	3. A Little Time Alone

Chapter 3 - A Little Time Alone  
  
Two weeks had passed since Frodo had been to the Green Dragon with Sam and Halfred. The bruise on his face had long since healed as had his sprained wrist, and Frodo had kept mostly to his study and his translations. There was plenty for him to do at Bag End, he told himself. He was not hiding. Or was he?  
  
Frodo looked out the window and breathed in the fresh breeze that wafted through it. It was one of those perfect fall days, the kind that come maybe two or three in succession, in colors of gold, red and brown, blazing in seeming defiance of winter's imminent arrival. Suddenly he felt angry with himself, frustrated at the confines of the walls that surrounded him by his own choosing. He couldn't sit in his study forever. He could not, and he would not.  
  
He scooped up his cloak and a book and walked resolutely toward the front door. If he stayed inside rather than face the world and all its good and evil, he would be letting Bramblethorn win. He refused to be imprisoned by his fear.  
  
Tucking the book securely under one arm, he set off down the path in the afternoon sunlight. He must have some time alone, away from the watchful eyes of even his beloved Sam, whom he was certain suspected something. He needed to collect his thoughts and emotions, and to do it somewhere quiet and secluded where he could cry if he needed to or shout if he thought it would purge the knot of darkness that had settled within him.  
  
He sought out a familiar place, where he often liked to sit reading beneath the trees. It was in a wooded area not a great distance from Bag End, near a clear stream that bubbled peacefully through the forest. The trees would be lovely this time of year, arrayed in brilliant fall colors, and he would be undisturbed there. He could read for a while and just escape the weight of his anxious thoughts, and the eyes that watched him ever so closely.  
  
~*~  
  
And eyes did watch him, ever so closely.  
  
Farther up the path, hidden by a thicket of leafy bushes, a figure stood still and silent, watching as Frodo left the main path and disappeared into the wood. How unexpected! And fortunate. Last time those two Gamgee brothers had been there to shield him, but not today. Not this time.  
  
The figure emerged from the thicket and strode slowly down the main path.  
  
~*~ Perfect. Shady, quiet, serene. Frodo leaned back against the tree trunk, watching the water tumbling over the rocks in the brook, listening to the soothing sound. He opened his book and began to read, letting the tale transport him elsewhere, away from all that frustrated him.  
  
Before long, he was absorbed in the story, relaxing into his peaceful surroundings. The sound of the little stream and the sun filtering down through the trees lulled him somewhat, and didn't hear the twig snap.  
  
The calm was shattered as glass on stone in the space of an instant. A hand covered his mouth and another clutched at his throat. He looked up in horror at Rushford Bramblethorn leering nastily at him. He couldn't breathe. He twisted desperately and felt an answering slap across his face.  
  
"That's for kicking me," Bramblethorn sneered. Another hard slap. "And that, Frodo Baggins, is for breaking my heart," he said quietly, mockingly, as he placed his knee in the center of Frodo's chest, holding him down.  
  
Frodo's head swam. Bramblethorn had belted him hard, nearly knocking him senseless. He tried to speak, but his voice had fled. So there it was, then. Bramblethorn wasn't even going to wait for his refusal this time. Frodo struggled against the pressure on his chest. It was clearly hopeless, but he was going to fight anyway.  
  
Lying on his back, Frodo swung a fist almost blindly. He was not surprised when it passed through empty air, striking nothing. "Fighting, are you? Fighting is good," Bramblethorn said, then drew back his hand and slapped Frodo again, stilling him. "It didn't have to be this way, Frodo," he said, almost sadly. "Had you but given me a proper chance, you might have enjoyed it."  
  
Frodo found his voice again. "There's nothing proper about any of it," he said weakly. "To seek pleasure by force with one who refuses - "  
  
" - Is a last, desperate resort, I admit." Bramblethorn finished. "And you see? You have forced me to admit it. You've made me desperate, Frodo," he snarled into Frodo's face. "You have scorned me, lashed out at me and left me no choice."  
  
"You have a choice," Frodo said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You can choose to let me go."  
  
"And leave my heart's desire unfulfilled?" Bramblethorn laughed, a horrific sound grating in Frodo's ears. "I think not, beautiful one. I think not." Frodo's assailant brought his hand up again as if to strike another blow, only to let it fall away at the last moment, not hitting him but softly stroking the line of his jaw instead. The touch was loathsome, obscene and unwanted, and tears sprang to Frodo's eyes.  
  
The pressure on his chest was suddenly gone, and Frodo gasped for air. He felt himself being dragged away from the little stream and deeper into the wooded area, away from the path, away from all hope.  
  
~*~  
  
Sam put the clippers down and stretched. It was late afternoon and just about the time he and Mr. Frodo usually sat down for tea and a chat. Mr. Frodo was probably in his study, working away at one translation or another. Sam saw no sign of movement in the kitchen as he passed the window. Stepping inside, he went toward the study, but found it empty as well.  
  
A hard, cold lump of fear began to form in the center of his chest, spreading outward. Had Frodo managed to leave Bag End by himself without Sam seeing him go? How could that have happened? Maybe when he was drawing water at the pump, or digging around in the shed for a particular tool. No matter how it came about, Frodo had gone and Sam had not gone with him.  
  
Sam had to find him, had to know if Frodo was in any danger. But where would Frodo have gone? He'd had no errands in town that he had spoken of. Given the fine weather, Sam surmised that Frodo would have gone for a walk or gone away to read somewhere. He couldn't have gone far. Frodo never missed afternoon tea unless he indeed had other plans, which he always mentioned to Sam.  
  
Closing the door firmly behind him, Sam fairly ran up the path from Bag End toward the woods a short distance away. If he showed up winded and worried but found Frodo safe and sound, Sam could live with looking the fool. If, on the other hand, his lapse of vigilance had caused Frodo to come to harm, he would never forgive himself.  
  
~*~  
  
His head hurt. Had he blacked out momentarily? He wished the darkness would take him again and spare him from what he was certain was coming. Someone was tugging at his arms, which were stretched above his head as he lay on his back. He opened his eyes just a little and saw that his attacker had bound his hands and tethered him to a small tree nearby.  
  
"Awake? I'm sorry, Frodo, but your flailing was growing tiresome. I had to do something about it." Bramblethorn was staring down at him, his eyes cold and totally devoid of anything resembling pity. All Frodo could see in them was the need to control, to possess, to defile.  
  
Frodo turned away, unable to look anymore.  
  
"You turn from me. Do you find me so unpleasant to look at?" Bramblethorn had knelt beside him and was at his ear now, whispering. "I look at you and my heart is pierced. I don't think you're a hobbit at all," he said, considering. "You must be part elf. You are so pale, so perfect -" The hands were back, opening the buttons at the top of his shirt, exposing and caressing his collarbone.  
  
"Don't! P-please!" Frodo realized he was trembling now, just has he had been when he had burst through the door at Bag End, the night this nightmare had begun.  
  
"Keep begging, Frodo," Bramblethorn said softly. "Not that it will do any good, but I like the sound."  
  
~*~  
  
Sam hurried toward the spot where a smaller path broke away from the main road and into the woods. There were footprints in the dust, leading down into the trees. Not daring to call out lest he alert anyone besides Frodo to his presence, Sam followed the trail. He searched for any sign of Frodo as he went, looking at the ground and foliage to the left and to the right.  
  
When he had gone deep enough into the wood that the main road was no longer visible to him, he saw it. There, by a small stream, under a tree. A book, bound in brown leather, lying carelessly against the carpet of fallen leaves. Mr. Frodo's book!  
  
Sam knew then that Frodo was in trouble. A scholarly hobbit who treated his books with loving care, Frodo would never leave a book lying on the ground. Sam picked the book up carefully, holding it in his hands as if it were a tiny, wounded bird. "Mr. Frodo," he whispered. "Where have you gone to?"  
  
Voices! Sam thought he had heard voices! Being careful not to make a sound, he moved slowly through the trees in the direction the sound had come from. The look on his face changed from fear to horror as he heard the exchange between the speakers.  
  
"Keep begging, Frodo. Not that it will do any good, but I like the sound."  
  
Bramblethorn! That - that filthy-minded orc-spawn! Sam could find no adequate epithet in the common tongue that was equal to the task of describing the hideous blight that was Rushford Bramblethorn. His heart nearly stopped to hear Frodo's voice answering, little more than a broken sob.  
  
"P-Please. D-don't do this."  
  
White-hot fury exploded behind Sam's eyes. He cursed himself for not bringing some sort of gardening implement to use as a weapon. It would have to be his bare hands that tore that creature limb from limb.  
  
Everything happened in a rush. Sam was through the trees and the bushes, slamming his hardest punch into Bramblethorn's jaw, throwing the horrid creature clear of Frodo. Bramblethorn rolled backwards as the blow landed, but his momentum carried him back to his feet in a swift, fluid motion.  
  
Almost as swiftly, the villain retaliated with a roundhouse punch that caught Sam in the temple. Sam staggered, but didn't fall. Sam's fury was driving him now, refueled by the sight of Frodo lying there, beaten and bound. The gardener faced the monster again, ready to avenge every blow, every word, every unwanted touch.  
  
"Look, Frodo, your gardener has come to save you," Bramblethorn called scathingly.  
  
"You filth!" Sam shouted. "I'll knock you all the way to Bree, one piece at a time!"  
  
"Brave words, oh killer of garden pests," the other hobbit sneered. Sam lunged forward, catching Bramblethorn around the knees and knocking him flat. Sam got in a few good jabs before Bramblethorn managed to get a grip on his throat. Sam's eyes widened and he gasped for air as Frodo's tormentor continued to squeeze the life from him. His vision blurred and began to darken.  
  
~I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo,~ Sam thought as he ceased struggling.  
  
A strangled cry from Frodo reached his ears. "Noooo! SAM!"  
  
~I'm sorry to make you think ~  
  
"Please, no! Don't touch me!"  
  
~I'm done for when I'm just~  
  
Sam's fingers closed tightly around the rock. He sat up and took aim. He had hated to give Frodo the idea, even for a moment, that Bramblethorn had succeeded in finishing him when he was only faking to get the brute to let go. Targeting the back of his enemy's head with a stone the size of a turnip from Bag End's garden, Sam let fly. True of heart, and true of aim was Master Samwise. The stone struck home as if shot from an elven archer's bow.  
  
Frodo's eyes flew open and he saw the expression on Bramblethorn's face change from one of hideous triumph to shock, then emptiness. He barely managed to roll himself out of the way as his attacker fell forward, unconscious. 


	4. Epilogue

Epilogue - In Safe Keeping  
  
Sam was at Frodo's side instantly, untying the rope that bound his hands. Frodo stirred weakly and looked at Sam in confusion. Hadn't he just seen - "Sam?!"  
  
Sam gathered Frodo into his arms and held him, fighting back his tears as he kissed Frodo's forehead. "Mr. Frodo! It's me! It's your Sam. I'm here to take you home -"  
  
Frodo was at a loss for words. He buried his face in Sam's chest, sobbing as Sam stroked his hair. "Can you walk, Mr. Frodo? We need to leave this place before he wakes up." Sam looked over at his fallen foe, who wasn't moving.  
  
"I-I think so," Frodo stammered. He leaned against Sam as they made their way up the path and out onto the main road. It was not a long walk to Bag End as walks in a place like the Shire go, but it seemed a journey of a thousand miles.  
  
Finally stumbling across the threshold of Bag End, Sam eased Frodo down onto the sofa and promptly locked the door. As soon as Frodo was sound enough, he would see to it that the whole affair came to the notice of the shirriffs. But for now, it was obvious where he should be.  
  
It only took a moment for Sam to heat the teakettle and bring out a steaming cup for Frodo. "It's just herb tea, with a light sedative. You need to rest, Mr. Frodo. Just rest and let your Sam take care of things." He carefully touched a cold, damp cloth to the bruises on Frodo's face. "Mr. Frodo," he said softly, "why didn't you tell me?"  
  
"I couldn't, Sam." Frodo's breathing had calmed and he lay still on the sofa, allowing Sam to tend his injuries. "I was afraid - "  
  
"What were you afraid of?"  
  
"I was afraid you might think that I - that I encouraged -"  
  
Sam was aghast. "I would never have thought any such thing, Mr. Frodo! How could I possibly - "  
  
"I know now. I was a fool, Sam." Frodo's eyes were fixed on Sam's. "I never encouraged him, not in the slightest. I had no interest in - in - him."  
  
Sam looked at his master quizzically. There was an odd catch in Frodo's voice as he had spoken the last part.  
  
"All - all I want -" Frodo stammered as a fresh wave of tears rose to the surface. "Don't leave!"  
  
"I'm not goin' anywhere." Sam said with conviction, again enfolding Frodo in arms. "Just try an' make me."  
  
As Frodo calmed somewhat, Sam persuaded him to drink the tea, and it began to have its intended effect. He blinked, bleary eyed at Sam and started to say something.  
  
"What is it, Mr. Frodo?" Sam leaned in close as Frodo whispered, "All I want, all I need is you, here with me." The next was barely audible as Frodo sank gratefully into sleep. "I love you, Sam."  
  
"I love you too, Mr. Frodo," Sam whispered, but Frodo was already asleep in his arms. "I promise I won't leave. You're in safe keeping, Mr. Frodo. You always will be as long as I have breath to promise." 


	5. Author's note A message of thanks

Authors note: a message of thanks  
  
Thanks to all who have reviewed so far: Lilybaggins, Trilliah, Endymion, Aelfgifu and Mariole! Your praise has been thrilling and your advice valuable.  
  
One review said the story was too short. Considering that and the fact that some plotbunnies just won't die a natural death, a sequel is in the works. Take cover, Shirelings! Rushford Bramblethorn is down but he is not out!  
  
The next story will likely be longer and more involved, and will be uploaded one chapter at a time.  
  
Thanks to all who read and review. You make my day!  
  
-Mbradford 


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